Dadivoso
by The Readers Muse
Summary: "You both have the same kind of sadness in your eyes," the old woman hummed suddenly. Setting aside her uneven knitting and patting the coverlet with crooked fingers.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own "The Walking Dead" or any of it's works or characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** jazzabenton asked for some Daryl x T-dog. Set in season two, if they stayed at the farm longer than they did on the show. Inspired by the prompt: "You have the same kind of sadness in your eyes."

**Warnings:** season two au/missing scene, emotional constipation, drama, unresolved tension, character study, could be seen as pre-slash, enemies to friends.

**Dadivoso**

_"She won't make it back to the farm."_

_"We can't leave her here, man. She needs a doctor. She won't last the night, not with those things outside. All it'll take is her dropping a god damned plate or-"_

_"Then we stay."_

_"Look, I'm not going to leave- wait… yeah?"_

_"Yeah. I'll go back in the morning and let Rick know. That truck by the barn might have enough gas. Can try to get her back, I guess."_

_"Thank you, Daryl...I mean it."_

_"Whatever, man. She's probably going to die anyway."_

* * *

"You both have the same kind of sadness in your eyes," the old woman hummed suddenly. Setting aside her uneven knitting and patting the coverlet with crooked fingers.

The shadows of the room darkened the smudge of lipstick she'd dashed on after she'd sat them down. Fluttering about in a serene sail of musty fabric and white diamond perfume. Chattering happily about not expecting visitors as her housecoat was replaced by a pink blouse and tan slacks.

The house slippers stayed on.

Arthritis, probably.

His gam-gam had been the same.

Her toes too crooked to bother with shoes most days.

He inched forward politely, wincing at the scream of the old springs. Too big to be perching so close to something so frail as she looked up at him with a surprisingly sharp gaze. Like a couple years ago she'd been sharper than a box of tacks and knew it.

_The same kind of sadness?_

The idea he had _anything_ in common with Daryl Dixon was more than he could chew on.

But still, it gave him pause.

"Do you know when the power might come back on?" she asked, looking over at the dusty kettle with obvious longing. The three mugs waiting dutifully with tea bag strings hanging out the side. Ready to go, just in case. "I would offer you some lemon cake, but I'm afraid I'm out of milk…and lemons…sugar too. You don't take milk in your tea, do you dears?"

She'd been inside the apartment when they'd broken in - needing a place to hole up for the night. What he'd been able to piece together was that the woman had been left behind somehow. Surviving on her own – mostly making do with her kitchen stores and what was left in her neighbour's cupboards.

He wasn't sure if it was worse or better that she didn't seem to know what was going on.

What the world was now or even how long she'd been alone.

"You boys are friends with my grandson?"

Daryl stayed back, flinching at the words. Just like he had ever since the woman had greeted them pleasantly from her bedroom door. Blinking owlishly as dust filtered down from the ruined drywall. He'd never seen Daryl trade looks so quick – from anger to nothing in less than a second flat. Or hide the axe they'd used to break in either. In fact, Daryl had left it outside, like he didn't want the old woman to see it at all. Blood-streaked blade facing away from the door like a tell.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied dutifully, tucking his chin into his chest as the sour smell of overflowing trash wafted in from the open window.

Daryl said nothing, the shadows hiding his uncomfortable glare.

The old lady seemed to take Daryl's surly distance as a challenge and kept pushing broken vanilla wafers at him. Coaxing him into taking a handful at a time like one would a feral dog. Slowly and with a butter-sweet tone.

It was surprisingly accurate, as far as comparisons went.

He kept waiting for Daryl to snap at her, like he did with all of them. But he didn't. He didn't know what it meant, but he didn't want to examine it too closely. Something told him it would be dangerous to his health. To the ratty, mental box he'd placed the redneck in as far as coping was concerned.

"My grandson will be here soon. He called this morning about my prescription. He's worried about me. Weak heart, you know. Such a good boy. He's in university- wants to be a doctor. Can you believe it? …It's a good thing he's coming soon, I've run out," she offered to the silence, beaming from her nest of blankets before going back to her knitting.

He picked up the empty bottle on her bed-side table and looked at the date. Something in his chest squeezing painfully tight as he forced a smile and put it back. Glancing over his shoulder to find Daryl already looking at him.

Some things didn't need words, he supposed.

"He'll be here soon," he finally replied, voice croaky and rough as the old woman smiled at him. "Rush hour, you know?"

He could practically feel Daryl's back stiffening behind him. Like he wanted to say something mean. Something real. But when she looked his way, Daryl just nodded. Angling his head towards the window where the sun was starting to set.

Gratitude had never tasted so much like dust and neglect in his entire life.

He took first watch. Surprised when after an hour, Daryl actually drifted off. Falling into it without grace, slumped upright against the far window. He shook his head, hands twitching with a familiar itch. Wanting to ease him down, at least so he'd rest some. But he didn't move. Knowing it wouldn't take much for the man to startle. He'd seen it happen more than once over the last few weeks and it was never pretty.

It was the kind of hyper-vigilance he'd seen on the street kids who'd come through the soup kitchen at the church. When they'd fall asleep on a corner chair and freak out when someone made just a bit too much noise. Flinching away, going for a hidden knife. Assuming someone was messing with them or worse. And-

_Christ._

Here he was, messing with his own rules again.

He listened to the building settle. Refusing to look until a soft sound – like a whimper – brought him back. And, maybe for the first time, he took advantage of the lack of witnesses and looked – _really_ _looked_. Taking in the dirty-blond feathers of his hair, the premature lines around his eyes. The way they were punched dark in the hollows. But mostly he stalled on the way that even in sleep, Daryl's free hand was curled into a fist. Like he was expecting the worst because the world had never shown him reason to act different.

Wanting to fix things – fix people - came naturally to him.

It was why he'd gotten involved with his church.

Why his free time had always belonged to others.

It felt like all that had changed when the world had gone to hell.

And it scared him.

It made him feel like an imposter. Like he was trying too hard to fit in when he pushed for the safer play. The one with less risk. Feeling like he was dying a little more every day when he chose survival over doing what his heart told him was right. He could have agreed with Lori about putting up signs below the quarry. He could have pushed harder about letting Shane call the shots. He could have forced Jacqui to come with them when they left the CDC. He could have dragged her out. He could have done more a hundred times since then. But he hadn't.

God had always shown him the path.

Now it felt like he was straying.

Because sin had teeth now and he was afraid.

His eyes found to the dead phone on her bedside table and the faded sticky note with a list of crooked numbers written down on it,

_Alice._

_Benjamin._

_Cee Cee._

_Jenny._

_Home Care Angels._

_Pastor Swenson._

He squeezed his eyes shut. Arm throbbing under the bandages as Daryl shifted in his sleep.

_"You both have the same kind of sadness in your eyes."_

Yeah, he was starting to get that.

* * *

The old woman was still sleeping when Daryl left the next morning.

"Be careful," he urged as Dixon slumped into the hall. A minefield of abandoned wheelchairs and lonely luggage. Snatching the axe and flipping it up to rest in the small of his back, against the inside of his backpack. Just another reminder that out of all of them, Daryl had been ahead of the grade curve.

The dude had been surviving his whole life. Not just the past few months.

Daryl only grunted, shoulders up like hackles. Eyes hard as they darted from him to the half-dark behind him. Chewing on the inside of his cheek before his hand went down to palm the empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

He didn't say goodbye. But maybe he didn't have to, considering the way Daryl looked up at the window before he moved out of sight. Pausing long enough that each of them knew they'd seen the other.

It felt like something.

* * *

Three years later, it was.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.

**Reference:**

\- Dadivoso: generous.


End file.
